Page 1 of Fake Dating the Silver Fox

ChapterOne

Graham

Get outsideand enjoy the weather,they said.Take time to smell the roses.

Getting out of my dark, dank office was supposed to help my writer’s block, but so far all it has done is make me overwhelmed and over caffeinated.

I’m on my fourth cup of locally grown coffee, staring at an empty screen.

The cursor taunts me, blinking on and off like a reminder of my failure. Noises from the busy sidewalk amplify in my quiet mind as I try desperately to squeeze a single word out.

Something is wrong. The words, which had been flowing like a fountain a few days ago, have dried up.

My latest novel, a thriller about a stalker and a single mom that is due in three weeks, is not going to write itself, but the words won’t come. I focus on the blank screen, willing ideas to fill in the white space.

Tears spring to my eyes with the effort, and my jaw aches from clenching my teeth. I remember to breathe, remember my mantra, remember my obligation to my fans….

Still no words. I can’t form a thought, much less a chapter.

Slamming my laptop shut, I reach for my coffee. After a long sip of piping hot goodness, which is way better than what they serve at 824 Dogwood Hills Lane, otherwise known as home, I am fortified.

I need to go old school. Back in the early days, I only wrote with a pen and paper.

My editor transcribed my work for me, and it was the perfect situation. When the pandemic hit, and it was nearly impossible to meet in person and hand off work, she convinced me to buy a laptop.

“It’s time to join the twenty-first century,” she’d said.

And she was right. There was a freedom in typing that I loved. I can delete as much as I want, and there’s something soothing about the busy clatter of keys on a keyboard.

For years, I’ve enjoyed my laptop, but at heart, I’m a notebook kind of guy. Luckily, I never go anywhere without one.

I stash my laptop in my bag and pull out my trusty spiral notebook and fountain pen. Poised for greatness, my pen hovers over the blank page.

And I freeze.

The first word must be perfect. Nothing less will do for G. Devlin,acclaimed author nominated for the National Book Award for a psychological thriller.

I snort to myself, doodling a cartoonish character in the margin.

More like, G. Devlin, permanently single man in his mid-forties with no prospects of a date for the most important night of his life.

As I take another indulgent sip of coffee, lost in self-effacing criticism, a blur of movement on the sidewalk jolts me from my thoughts. Voices raise over the chaos, and the crowd jostles to allow room for a small, furry dog.

Poor mutt is as homely a thing as I’ve ever seen. He’s toy-sized, with a long body, short legs, and ears that hang down to the ground. His hair is wild and curly, golden as a lion’s mane, and his whip of a tail is too short for his body.

He dashes along the sidewalk, parting the crowd and heading straight for me. His tongue lolls out of his mouth as he spots me, and his amber eyes fill with excitement. Bounding toward me, trailing his leash behind him, he arrives with alarming speed and zips behind my chair.

His leash wraps around my chair legs, and just like that, he’s trapped himself. He gives a sharp yank to break free, and with the sudden tug, my coffee sloshes over the rim of the mug, spilling all over the blank pages of my notebook.

“Oh no! Cupid! Get back here!”

The frantic voice belongs to a woman. I barely register her face before she’s crouched in front of my chair, reaching between my legs.

Her t-shirt rides up, revealing a black lace thong peeking out from her low-rise jeans. The unexpected sight of her sexy underwear combined with her shapely ass waving in the air sends a jolt of awareness through my overstimulated nerves.

I’ve been so busy writing; I haven’t had a date in months. And I haven’t had sex in a lot longer.

The thought of taking this well-formed woman to my bed has my blood rushing straight to my crotch. I hope to all the gods in the universe she doesn’t look up and notice the bulge in my pants.

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